Bloodstream: A gripping, unpredictable and shocking thriller

Murphy heard the low whistle from beside him and had to stop himself from matching it. The waterfront lay behind them, Albert Dock in all its resplendent glory, the Liver Buildings just a little further up the road on the same side as the docks. The road which ran alongside them was busy with rush-hour traffic, which would begin to quieten as the evening drew on. Murphy shielded his eyes as the evening sun slipped from behind clouds.

‘Now, this is a nice place,’ Murphy heard Rossi say beside him.

He looked up, giving a non-committal shrug. The top of the apartment building reached towards white drifting clouds, rising up in an odd shape and finishing in a sharp, wide point at its tip, dwarfing them and everything around it.

‘Did you know it was an Argentinian architect who designed this?’

‘I’m surprised you know it,’ Rossi said, smirking at Murphy. ‘Never mind me.’

‘Read about it in the Echo ages ago. Bet it doesn’t come cheap.’

DC Hale piped up behind them. ‘Amazing what getting your baps out for some lads’ mags can buy you.’

Murphy turned to watch Rossi smack DC Hale on the arm and say something in Italian to him.

‘Now, now,’ Murphy said, trying to imitate a school teacher and failing. ‘None of that here, kids.’

‘Tell him that,’ Rossi replied, walking ahead of them. ‘Are youse coming or what?’

The apartment building was one of the new glass-fronted monstrosities that had appeared near the waterfront in the past few years. Money dribbling down from the Capital of Culture days meant property developers were now getting involved, building bespoke two-bed flats for those with more money than sense.

‘Who wants a view of the Wirral anyway?’ Murphy said to no one in particular. ‘Everyone knows the best view is from the other side.’

One Park West was a fairly new residential development. A communal entrance guarded by a 24/7 security team gave its occupants a sense of safety and superiority.

‘How much is the rent for one of these places?’ Murphy said, as he, Rossi and DC Hale waited for the lift to take them to the higher levels where the apartments lay. ‘A grand?’

‘Probably more,’ Rossi said. ‘I know they’re at least a couple of hundred grand to buy.’

‘For a tiny two-bedroom flat . . . we’re becoming more and more like that London every day.’

There was a uniform outside the apartment, standing to attention and trying not to fall asleep on his feet.

‘Anyone else inside yet?’ Murphy asked him as they reached the door.

‘Few forensic guys, but that’s it.’

Murphy led the way inside. A small hall led into the open-plan living and kitchen area. He could smell the expense. A large sofa in the middle of the room was plonked in front of one of the largest flat screen televisions he’d ever seen. It wasn’t that which drew his attention, however. It was the floor-to-ceiling windows which wrapped around the room, giving a panoramic view of the Albert Dock and, in the distance, the River Mersey, the ferry almost visible on its way home.

‘Wow,’ DC Hale said from beside him. ‘How the other half live.’

‘You can say that again,’ Rossi said, standing near one of the windows and looking out. ‘Think I can see Bidston Hill from here. Bloody telly is blocking most of the view though.’

‘Michael,’ Murphy said, gaining DC Hale’s attention. He lowered his voice so the two forensic officers in the room couldn’t hear. ‘You start going through personal effects. See if they’ve found anything suspicious hidden away in the other rooms. Check everywhere, just in case they haven’t. The bedroom is a good place to start – under the mattress, the bed, back of the wardrobe, that sort of thing.’

‘Sir.’

DC Hale toddled off like a good little boy, leaving Rossi and Murphy in the living area, along with the two officers who were waiting for Murphy to speak again. ‘Don’t let us stop you,’ Murphy said. ‘We’re wearing gloves and everything.’

Murphy joined Rossi at the window, gazing out onto the waterfront. ‘I think you could get bored of this view. You know, after seeing it everyday.’

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Rossi replied, tearing her stare away from the window. ‘Long way from where Joe came from.’

‘Laptops and phones?’

‘On it,’ Rossi said, pacing round the room and leaving Murphy to stand at the window.

‘Nice life if you can hold on to it,’ he said quietly to himself.

*     *     *

The light outside had finally faded by the time they’d got back to the office, the visit to Chloe and Joe’s apartment coming to an end just as the night began to take over.

Once the positive IDs had been given for Chloe Morrison and Joe Hooper, things could really start for Murphy. As the day wound down and jobs were given out to an expanding team, Murphy began to formulate a list of everything that could have resulted in the two victims being found dead in an abandoned house.

It could have been longer.

‘Laura, get yourself off. Another long one tomorrow and there’s nothing more we can do now.’

‘Five more minutes. Just finding out one more name for interview.’

Murphy had left the task of tracking down the friends and other close family members of the victims to Rossi. DC Harris had been helping her, but had left an hour earlier, a long day having more of an effect on him than it once had.

‘Fine, but I want you fresh tomorrow.’

Murphy, receiving an Italian slur under Rossi’s breath in response, left her to it. The day had stretched out now into a slow, meandering end, as investigations tended to do.

Not that you would believe it from watching the twenty-four-hour news channels. Someone had made the decision to have the TV playing in the background; there was no volume, just many excitable faces changing every few minutes as coverage of the deaths of Chloe Morrison and Joe Hooper reached national level. A never-ending yellow ticker across the bottom of the screen announcing the news on a loop.

REALITY STARS ‘CHLOJOE’ FOUND DEAD IN LIVERPOOL

Murphy had been spared the first press conference – a professional media spokesperson taking control. It seemed as if every station had their own press and media consultant now, someone to keep the police’s profile in check.

Less crime, more news.

He knew it wouldn’t last though. At some point Murphy would be forced to sit in front of a bank of cameras and pretend the investigation was moving forward. Give platitudes and reassure the public. Feed the masses.

Murphy had been surprised at the level of interest. He’d barely heard of the pair, but it seemed as if everyone in the country was suddenly interested in Chloe and Joe’s fate.

Domestic Violence – Murder-suicide

Drugs

Sexual Motives

Revenge – Person/s known to victims

Stranger

It was the last item on his list which gave him pause. A stranger coming into the lives of Chloe and Joe, taking them to that place and killing them . . . that was the worst-case scenario. Thankfully, it was also the least likely.

Murphy would play the odds, but the pictures cut out of magazines and stuck to the wall bothered him. That would have taken time. Effort.

It would be just his bloody luck.

‘Done,’ Rossi said, closing her laptop with a bang. She passed a piece of paper to one of the night-shift DCs and shared a few words as Murphy waited. ‘Last one ticked off. Have to say, it’s a short list of people who were actually close to them.’

‘You’d think those famous types would have tons of friends,’ Murphy replied, leaning back in his chair and stretching his long legs out under his desk.

‘Turns out most are just friends in name only. I’ve spoken to the agent a few times today and it seems like he was really the only close one.’

‘Don’t ignore him either. Nothing to say he doesn’t know more at this point.’

Rossi grabbed her coat from the back of her chair and placed one arm inside. ‘Of course not. Just using what we have so far. Most of them are going to be prepared though, you know that?’

Murphy nodded. ‘Nothing we can do about that,’ he said, pointing towards the TV on the wall.

‘Suppose not. What happened with that guy from this morning? Our confessor?’

‘Whole case is going back to Liverpool South. They’re dealing with it all now. Which means . . .’

‘She’ll be listed as missing and forgotten about. She is eighteen, I suppose. Not much we can do, especially if it does turn out that our man from this morning had nothing to do with it.’

Murphy gripped the side of his chair a little harder. ‘Suppose so.’

‘Shame about the girl though. If Amy Maguire’s disappearance got half the coverage this thing has got . . .’

Murphy bit his tongue and simply nodded. He wanted to say more, but decided it wasn’t the time.

‘Right, I’m gone,’ Rossi said, when Murphy didn’t say anything more. ‘See you first thing, unless anything happens overnight.’

Murphy watched Rossi leave, working out how much longer he would have to stay to show himself willing.

Ten minutes was enough.

He made his way out of the station and was on the road leaving the city centre within minutes. Checking the clock on the dashboard of his car, he turned the volume up on the stereo. Pink Floyd had switched places with David Bowie. Murphy banged his hand on the steering wheel in time to ‘The Jean Genie’ in spite of himself.

He spared the inside of his car his tuneless voice.

It was a straight run along the waterfront and past the Festival Gardens, through Otterspool. It was probably quicker going through the city, but Murphy preferred the route he was on, taking in the sights of the River Mersey at night, as the docks were left behind and became the promenade.

Murphy was pulling off Western Avenue and onto the road he’d grown up on within half an hour. The differences from his childhood were laid bare before him. Everything changing in a blink of an eye. The pub where his dad had used to drink was now a hotel, convenient for the airport. The small row of shops – where he had been sent by his parents with a quid for a loaf of bread and a pint of milk and told to keep the change more times than he could remember – were still there. Under new ownership, of course, but still hanging on. The chippy, which did the best savouries, but the worst fish, was now neighboured by a funeral director’s. Murphy imagined they did good business in Speke, given the average life expectancy.

Damwood Road, where Murphy had lived for the first twenty years of his life, was lined with homes set back from the road. The houses had massive back gardens, and the Venny was only up the road. Jess had lived five minutes’ walk away, off Damwood on Marton Green – her house one of a bunch which surrounded a patch of grass no one ever kept trim.

Murphy turned left before reaching his old home. Now forever tainted by the memory of what had happened there three years previously. His parents murdered in their own living room by a bitter, jealous man. A man who had torn not only Murphy apart, but almost his marriage to Sarah too.

He felt a pang of guilt as he remembered Sarah back then. Trying to make sense of what that man had done. A man she had once shared a bed, even a home, with, before Murphy had come along.

Now, on a quiet street round the corner from that house, Murphy sat in his car wondering if he was about to do something very stupid.

Murphy got out of the car, leaving it parked up on the kerb. Keying the lock he heard the familiar beep accompanied by a spray of lights. He walked up a short path and knocked on the glazed front door, remembering a time when it had been blue, splintered wood.

‘Hey, thanks for coming,’ Stacey Maguire said, moving aside so Murphy could get past her.

‘No problem,’ Murphy said, waiting for her to show him the way in. ‘Can’t stay long. Got to get back home and that.’

‘Course you have,’ Stacey replied. ‘Do you want a brew or anything?’

Murphy shook his head. ‘I’ve only come to let you know the latest.’

‘I can’t believe the case landed on you like that. What’s that word . . . serendipiddy?’

‘Close enough,’ Murphy said, sitting on a two-seater sofa that had seen better days. He noticed the threadbare carpet beneath his feet, and he was sure he recognised the wallpaper on the walls from the last time he’d visited, almost twenty years earlier. She’d taken the house over, her parents now living in a smaller place elsewhere in Speke. ‘I’ve got some bad news though.’

‘Oh no . . .’

Murphy realised his mistake as soon as the words were out of his mouth. ‘Shit, no, not that. We still haven’t found her, Stace. The guy who came in this morning, looks like he didn’t have anything to do with it.’

‘You scared the shit out of me then.’

Murphy held his hands up. ‘I’m crap at picking my words, remember?’

‘Of course I do. I remember everything from when we were kids. We all used to fancy you rotten, all the girls around here.’

‘Wish I’d known back then,’ Murphy replied, remembering his lack of luck with the opposite gender. ‘Might have been a happier teenager.’

‘All of us made it as clear as we could. Except Jess White, of course. How is she after . . . you know?’

Murphy paused, not wanting to say anything about Jess. ‘From what I hear, she’s doing okay.’

Stacey seemed to sense that it wasn’t ground he wanted to go over and left the subject. ‘What’s going on then?’

Murphy looked at the picture which took up a significant part of one wall. A large canvas photograph of Amy Maguire – the resemblance to Stacey at that age incredible – sitting beside her two younger brothers. ‘Did you hear about the murders earlier this morning?’

‘The ChloJoe thing? It’s all anyone is talking about. I’m telling you, if Amy’s face had been in the news this much, she would have been found by now. Shit sells, I suppose.’

‘Thing is, I’m on that case . . .’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake . . .’

‘So, they’ve sent Amy’s case back here, to Liverpool South. I’m sorry.’

Stacey paced alongside the old, varnish-stained mantelpiece. ‘You’ve got to do something, David. Can’t you tell them why you need to be looking into it?’

‘I definitely can’t do that,’ Murphy said, standing up. Suddenly wanting to be anywhere but there, in that house. ‘I will keep an eye on things, put as much pressure on them as possible, but for now, I can’t do anything about it.’

‘She could be your daughter. Think about that.’

Murphy stopped on the opposite side of the room. The reason he was there in the first place, sounding ridiculous when said out loud.

One drunken fumble and your whole life can change. In Murphy’s case, he hadn’t even known about it until recently.

‘We don’t know that for sure though, do we, Stacey? She might be mine. That’s what you said to me.’

‘I just want you to find her,’ Stacey said, tears springing to her eyes. ‘Please. She’s a good girl. Honest. Then, we can find out for sure.’

He looked at the picture again, looking for anything that reminded him of himself in Amy’s face. Could see only an eighteen-year-old Stacey, the girl from round the corner. Everything about the situation felt wrong. The way Stacey was acting towards him, the fact it had taken eighteen years for her to even tell him about Amy’s existence. The way she was suddenly so interested in him being in her life.

It wasn’t real. That’s what he knew. That’s what his head told him. Still, there was doubt. Enough to keep him there, for now.

‘I’ll do my best, Stace,’ Murphy said, walking to the doorway. ‘That’s all I can do.’

*     *     *

Murphy left, checking his phone on the way down the path back to his car. Swore when he saw the time. He quickened his pace, wanting to be away from the place he’d left behind.

Amy Maguire was alive. He was sure of it. She would be found and then the whole mess could be put behind him, putting a stop to his worries about missing out on a child’s life he hadn’t known existed until now. Still, Murphy knew what would happen now. Amy’s face would join a myriad of others. Lost loved ones, gone without a trace. If she didn’t turn up in the Mersey, or somewhere else, then Stacey Maguire would still be looking in years to come. Keith – the confessor from that morning – would be forgotten, just another man with mental health issues, who had claimed responsibility for something he hadn’t done.

It wouldn’t save her.